10 Things I Hate About Harry
by Rizzle
Summary: By Draco Malfoy. Slashy humour.
1. Chapter 1

**One: Eyes**

Now, it was either me or Goyle who did it – Goyle's a bit of a dark horse and sometimes you have no idea where he's coming from - but one of us sent Potter a fake Valentine. Which among other things, likened the colour of his eyes to what happens when you leave a piece of bread in a dark cupboard for a month or so.

I think it must have been me. Goyle is as subtle as one of Hagrid's hair-suits and would have written something along the lines of: _'I'm going to stab you when you're sleeping you die Gryffindor you die'_ or some such thing.

He would have also misspelled 'your' and 'Grifindor', no doubt.

Sadly, our juvenile attempt at humour was overshadowed by Ginny Wealsey's honest Valentine which so thoughtfully began with, 'his eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad'.

Inspiring stuff and further proof that love impacts upon your intellect in the same way sniffing a bag of glue does.

I can be objective, you know. I know 'pretty' when I see it. There are those-- excuse me while I scramble for a vomit bag --who would liken Potter's eyes to, say, a pine forest after a spring shower. The green of the woods reflected on the surface of a clear lake. Far-seeing green.

You get what I'm saying?

There's nothing inherently wrong with green eyes.

The problem is basically what lies _behind_ said, green eyes. Father always said that you can charm away ugly, apply creams and create potions to disguise hideousness.

But stupid _always_ comes out in the end.

And what is with that _look_ he gives you? Please! I mean these _looks_! Who the hell does he think he is? Some sort of orphaned doe, alone in the woods, traumatized by his mother's death, making friends with little bunnies with speech impediments?

"Potter", I feel like telling him, "you are not a silly little girl so quit acting like everything cuts you to the quick. If you can't handle a smart quip or an astute observation about your physical appearance and or breeding, from an admittedly less than well-meaning classmate, than go stick your head in the toilet and drown yourself because you're no good to anyone".

He's got several looks, does Potter. Each more dull and irritating than the next. There's 'startled innocence', which is, sadly, how he usually looks. This look involves large, goggling eyes, that on some occasions actually _tremble_ with moistness. I'm not kidding.

And he gets away with bloody murder because of it.

Me, I'm capable of 'startled innocence', but I'm careful to use it only when I need to. Do it once or twice a year, and you've gained an all-areas pass into the underpants of whichever school chum or workmate you've set your sights on.

Use it _all_ the bleeding time and you're Harry Take Me Home and Feed Me Potter.

Let me see...there's also 'regular old surprise'. I call this one The Fish. I swear that boy's lower lip must weigh as much as Madam Maxime's left thigh because he can't seem to keep his mouth closed when the slightest nibble of a question penetrates that six inch, lead-plated brain-box of his.

I'm attending a charity gala function next Wednesday (part of the reparatory post-War process, don't ask, go away, I won't tell _you_) where Potter will be receiving yet another surprise award.

I trust I'll witness The Fish in all its slack-jawed glory. I'd take a picture for you for posterity and proof, but I fear the film in my camera would dissolve from the abuse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two: Hair**

I anonymously sent him a mirror for his 21st birthday along with a voucher for a year's worth of visits to Maurice's Salon in Diagon Alley. And afterwards, I giggled like Millicent Bulstrode after a close encounter with Marcus Flint on a tight stairway.

I mean, have you actually _seen_ the Boy Who Lived? Close up? You haven't, have you? I'm not talking about all the times you've peered, with unblinking intensity at your old copy of 'Witch Weekly's Men of Quidditch 2001 Calendar', wherein a certain 'Mister July' is shirtless and wearing trousers so tight, you wish he had a galleon in his pocket so you could call "Tails!"

Or "Heads!", whatever you may nancy.

I mean fancy.

I'm talking about so close, right up close that you can practically count each spiky, black eyelash (he has loads). That mop of hair might look charmingly disheveled from a distance. It might even look endearing and possessed of a 'run-your-fingers-through-me' quality, but do not be fooled! Do not sigh and smile wistfully to yourself and think of ways to lean ever so slightly forward when you find him sitting in front of you at a Weird Sisters concert to see if his hair smells as good as you think it feels.

Do not be lulled into hero-hair worship! Or hero-worship, as things go.

At this point, I should perhaps clarify that Potter is not doing any of this on purpose.

Yes, I'm _serious_. He's really not.

His hair - much like the rest of his personal hygiene - is inherited. So I was told by my father.

Who seemed to know an awful lot about James Potter's own head of hair and personal hygiene, but hey, let's not go _there_.

Back to Harry. There is no vanity or coquetry in that fat-brained, black-haired, fame-jockey. I know this because I know all about artifice. One does not wake up in the morning and go downstairs to breakfast almost every day for seven years without spending a requisite ten minutes charming away one's under-eye circles and gelling one's hair, unless one is either stupid and annoying, or supremely confident.

Harry Potter may be the most powerful flesh suit to ever hold a wand, but he's not exactly brimming with self assurance.

I often think about what I would do if I were him. With all that fame, attention, legion of females hanging on to my every word.

Would I trade all I have now for _that_?

Hmm. Might help if I put things in perspective.

I'd honestly kill myself if I were ginger. I'd shave my head if I had Granger's escaped-mental-patient-on-a-humid-day, hairdo. But if I had Harry's head of hair, I'd commiserate myself by shagging the nearest blond Slytherin.

Nearest _natural blond_, Slytherin, I should add.

Let's just say that Pansy Parkinson's carpets do not match the drapes, and we'll leave it at that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three: His Legion of Adoring Females**

Just the other day I was coming home from an excellent meal at _Chez Phillipe _in Magical London, when I tripped over something sweaty, panting and huddled-over, in an alleyway.

Being the fine, athletic and nimble male specimen that I am, I put out a hand to brace myself for the cobblestones that rushed up to meet me. The sweaty, moaning, something-or-other, apologized profusely and attempted to divert my fall.

My hand contacted with a hard abdomen, and then denim, slid further down past what felt alarmingly like an open zipper, and then....

"Eugh!" I said, retracting my hand and any offer of soiled assistance, when I saw what it was I had collided into. Or _who_ it was, rather.

Harry Potter was flat on his arse, on the ground, with an open fly and a face as red as Weasley pubes.

I determined that I would Disapparate for home immediately, chop off my hand and replace it with a pair of serviceable kitchen tongs, for nothing could possibly be worse than to continue life attached to the very extremity that had rubbed against Potter's gibblets!

He smelled oddly like vanilla tea-cake and a lot of booze, which should have been a repulsive combination, but wasn't.

"Sorry," he squeaked. He offered an explanation, in between exclamations of, "oh my God, Malfoy, it was _so_ horrible."

I was thus informed that he and Weasley had got themselves well and truly soused at a local watering hole. The men's lavatory had been out of order and so the lads had stumbled out the back, into an alleyway to douse a brick wall.

"Worse than Voldemort," I heard the twit mutter.

"What could possibly be worse than Voldemort?" I asked. It was a fair question.

Sixteen drunk, cheeky witches on a Hen's Night, apparently. One eagle-eyed wench had spotted Weasley and Potter, de-trou'd in the darkness of the alleyway and within seconds, the entire group had given chase.

Behind his rheumy eyes, I saw concern. "We ran as far as Flourish and Blotts when I realised I'd lost Ron."

Naturally, I thought, because flaming red hair just blends so well into grey walls and grey cobblestone streets.

It was at this point that Potter went as white a sheet and started pointing and garbling at something behind me.

Sixteen, widely grinning, slightly swaying female flesh suits were approaching with mayhem and molestation on their minds. And they were starting to look all the more excited at having recognized _me_.

The lass at the front had to be the bride, I gathered. She was wearing a lop-sided tiara, a pair of wire-framed, fairy wings which were by now rather squashed, and was holding a wand.

I say 'a' wand and not 'her' wand, because the wand in question was thick-shafted, pink and white striped with a big, blinking, silver plastic star on the top. Not to say that she didn't have her own wand stashed inside, ala Hagrid's pink umbrella.

It was wise not to assume, in any case.

With Potter cowering in drunken panic at my feet, I did what any cornered, slightly evil man would do.

I hauled the half-wit up by the front of his shirt and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

The female flesh suits stared, in amazement. One or two more adventurous ladies gave a whoop of excitement. The bride, however, decided that their quarry that evening was otherwise occupied. The women scattered like fallen oak leaves in an autumn breeze .

I daresay I left Potter slightly more hysterical than when I had found him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four: Hermione Granger**

Potter kisses and tells.

I know this because I opened the door on Sunday morning to find a stern-faced Hermione Granger percolating on my doorstep. I'd taken my sweet time walking to the foyer from the other end of my extremely large, extremely expensive house.

"I'm sorry," I said, eyeing her unsurprisingly hideous outfit. "I'm not actually home right now. Please leave your name, contact address and a brief message and I promise to continue ignoring you."

The horrible woman pushed past me, elbowing her way into the foyer. I was quite sure there were laws preventing this sort of thing. She should know, being an Auror and all.

"I need to talk to you Malfoy. It's about Harry."

"_Hairy_ is very Europeran, but not everyone's cup of tea. Is it Weasley who minds? I'm hearing wonderful things about this new fangled Muggle contraption called an epilator," I kindly advised, without judgement or condemnation.

She looked like she wanted to box me over the ears. "Can you be serious for a moment?"

I paused, frowned deeply for three breaths and then said. "Ok. It seems I can. Anything else?"

"Look Malfoy, Harry is in a terrible state after what you did to him last night!"

"And what exactly did I do?" I tried to envision this so-called 'terrible state'. Granted, he was pale as a wraith when I left him. I suspected this was because all the blood has rushed to his trousers which had been visibly tented.

She jabbed me with an un-manicured, nail-bitten finger. "You know full well what you did. You bloody kissed him and now he's...well he-"

"Considers himself properly tutored?" I interjected. "Honestly, he uses his tongue like he's trying to paint the side of a barn with it."

Granger scowled. I was curious to note that her eyebrows did not, in fact, meet in the middle. Wow. You learned something new every day. "Malfoy, we all know where your taste lies..."

"My taste does not lie, it _reveals_," I said, mysteriously.

Predictably, Granger did not lose focus. She's one of the few people I know who can manage this. Snape is another one. And Crabbe, but only because he doesn't have any focus in the first place to be able to lose it.

The woman actually looked a little smug. "You have no idea that Harry's only been harbouring a crush on you since third year, do you?"

I think she expected to level me with this little revelation. Silly, presumptuous female. I suspected the crush existed at the exact moment I felt Potter's finesse-lacking tongue meet my own in that boozy kiss last night.

And his raging erection. Yup. That had been the other, slight giveaway.

Only not so 'slight', apparently. I never had the good fortune of crossing broomsticks with Potter in the Quidditch showers at Hogwarts, but I wondered how word had not gotten out about the fact he was hung like a Beauxbatons stallion.

I shrugged. It was important to look nonchalant, even when discussing Potter's giant penis. "Lots of people have crushes on me, Granger."

"I don't."

"Come now, we're adults. What's a little confiding between friends, eh?" I nudged her, hoping to be accused of sexual harassment so I would I have a valid reason to kick her out of my house.

"And I'm not your friend," she countered.

I gave her a grin that ought to have exploded her knickers. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

It didn't work. By Merlin, she really was telling the truth. Hermione Granger does not find me...charming. Oh God. I'm old and undesirable at only 21!

What she ended up showing me was Potter's address on a piece of notepaper. "He's staying at a motel because he's too ashamed to go home to Ginny," she explained. "Please. Go and speak to him. If you don't sort this out with him, I'm going to arrest you."

I was more stunned than angry. "On what charges?"

She thought for a moment, before reaching up and yanking at the neckline of her horrid maroon blouse, such that the front seam ripped.

"Attempted sexual assault," she said, staring down at her drooping bodice.

The woman was diabolical! "Granger, it might have escaped your notice, but _I'm gay_."

"I know," she told me, with an infernally understanding expression. "So if you really do have any feelings for Harry, please go and talk to him because you of all people should know what it feels like to live a lie."

And then the fourth thing I hate about Harry Potter left my house.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Glad you guys are enjoying the story so far. Five down, five to go!

* * *

**Five: Ronald Weasley**

No good deed goes unpunished.

Well. There I was in this terribly unfashionable part of town, caught out in the rain without an umbrella or the means to pull out my wand and use it, when I get bloody punched in the face!

"You pervert!"

Weasley had apparently just been to see Potter, in an unsuccessful attempt to explain to the latter that it was time he admitted certain truths and that no one would love him any less, even if he did enjoy playing hide the broomstick.

I think Weasley was expecting me to go down like Neville Longbottom after half a glass of beer. He did catch me unawares, I have to admit. As it was, my head merely whipped to the side before I righted myself and stared incredulously at the man I was now going to have to murder.

We were standing in front of the Muggle motel where Potter had exiled himself, and there was a growing crowd of spectators.

"Bastard!" he screeched, pulling his freckled fist back to swing at me again.

This time, I sidestepped him, watched his fist zing past my head and then I happily tripped him with my foot. He fell back onto the pavement, anger and embarrassment not doing anything to improve his already dismal communication skills.

"You son of a-! I'll bloody kick your-! Arrgh! Get your foot off me you git, I'm going to kill you!"

"With what, your fashion sense?" said I, staring down at him in a contemplative manner. "Granted, a denim shirt paired with jeans ought to be illegal for anyone who doesn't ride horses for a living, but it's not exactly lethal to behold."

"Get off!"

I took my foot off his chest and before one of his three brain cells could react, I took his hand and hauled him up to eye-level once more

"What's your beef with me, Weasel?" I demanded.

"This is about Harry and you know it, you arsehole!"

I smirked, even though I was tired of being insulted. "I see. So this is a case of you preferring Potter to be the recipient of your, um, beef? Do I have it right? Does Granger know you enjoy barbecuing with your male friends?"

He went red. Redder than usual, I mean. "I'm not...it's not like that. I just care about Harry's happiness. We all do."

I felt like slapping my forehead. I slapped his instead. He growled and lunged at me. "That's why I'm here, half-wit," I hissed, ducking under another fist. "Your deranged girlfriend barged into my house this morning and blackmailed me into counselling Potter."

He gaped. It was The Fish, ala Weasley. "She did?"

I realise then that he didn't know about Granger's attempted sexual assault threat. I decided not to give him a reason to give _me_ a reason to flatten him a second time. Plus, I was soaked to the skin and really wanted to get out of the rain.

"Look, I don't care what Harry does in his private life," Weasley muttered.

"Bollocks," I told him. "Of course you care. He's your best friend and he happens to be dating your sister."

Weasley looked pained now. "Ginny will understand. These sorts of things cannot be...helped."

I didn't like the way he said 'these sorts of things', but I had grudging admiration for his obvious concern for Potter's wellbeing. Also, I happened to know that Percy Weasley was the biggest queen to never wear a tiara and that his family seemed ok with it so far.

"So you're here to talk to him. Just talk?" He narrowed his eyes at me. I wondered if he thought 'talk' was code for holding Potter down and having my deviant way with him.

God. What did he _think_ I was there to do? Yes, Harry was passably attractive, but there were so many things I hated about him! Like...well I could easily count ten things, right off the top of my head! His eyes, his stupid hair, his friends! Blah!

I realised Weasley was still waiting for an answer. He was looking at me a little oddly. I cleared my throat and summoned some glacial intensity. "Yes, Weasley. I'm just going to talk to him. And I realise I may have to draw diagrams at some point, but I trust Potter will catch up eventually."

"You're _such _a wanker."

"So are you. Any fully functioning man who denies it is a sodding liar."

"I really don't know what Harry sees in you," he said, accusingly.

I winked at him before I started towards the motel entrance. "I do. Unlike Potter, I have lots of mirrors at home."


End file.
